


tête-à-tête (pour trois)

by sabraneadaz



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, I Lucifer - Glen Duncan
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Comedy, Footnotes, Gen, Missing Scene, POV First Person, Religion, heed the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23667460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabraneadaz/pseuds/sabraneadaz
Summary: “Now, ask God, dear old mother and father in heaven – humans really need to come up with a word to call omnipresent parental no-gender-but-also-all-gender celestial beings, honestly –whyexactly I’ve been reincorporated into this flagging old body with all the twisted self-loathing and oedipal complexes a repressed bisexual Catholic could possibly contain. Any ideas?”(Lucifer fromI, Luciferruns into two familiar faces outside the Ritz.)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 3





	tête-à-tête (pour trois)

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read I, Lucifer, all you need to know is God offered Lucifer a deal: live as a human for one month and either be forgiven or go back to Hell. Also, Lucifer's a right arsehole.

**Author’s Note**

As readers of the first edition of this book will know, I was requested by Lucifer, before his departure, to recount the end of his tale faithfully, and to send the completed manuscript (with my notes) to his agent. However, the Almighty moves in mysterious ways, and this following passage was removed from the script, presumably whilst it travelled as encrypted data between servers.

One most not presume to know the mind of our Father, and why He did not want this passage in the first edition of I, Lucifer. Regardless, it is now included in this Second Edition as a prologue, and Lucifer’s story is now told in full.

May God be with you, Lucifer.

Raphael.

* * *

**Prologue**

In the spirit of sharing most ( _most_ , not _all_ , as I clearly said much earlier in my storytelling, you greedy darlings), I’ll let you in on a frankly _delightful_ little tête-à-tête I had with a certain member of the heavenly host, and his little pet traitor-demon. (1)

  * (-a- tête? a trois? French was my doing, and yet I never quite got the hang of that devilish language…)



Certainly, you may snort. I snorted not once but twice during the whole encounter. Okay, well, _perhaps_ I snorted several very amusing times during the conversation, but can you blame me? Letting out one of those pig-like, grating, fog-horn-blowing snorts when your conversation partners are no less than absolutely _deathly_ terrified of you is infinitely amusing. It’s not something I often get the opportunity to do either, except for when I’m torturing souls in hell. (2)

  * Trust me, I had a go at getting that same sharp-eyed shit-stained-pants look from some of the more annoying of the Fallen in my service, but unfortunately they’re mostly numb to fear by now. It’s the human souls that really have the best reactions. Enough torture and they’ll be scampering to kill themselves again at the mere sight of my raised eyebrow.



But I’m getting ahead of myself again. Let’s set the scene.

So of course during my little _vacay_ up on the Earth, after I eventually wanked myself out the door of my flat and into the city, I decided to take the measure of my success. And what better place to see the results of my work than good ole’ Blighty? A nation built on the backs of thousands of millions of people suffering fates arguably worse than the torture hell itself dishes out? (Although I suppose Moloch’s constant shitting-and-eating cycle is a hard one to beat).

So, there I am, typical rainy day in London town and I’m strolling down Piccadilly. The _avarice_ of the place. You simply had to be there to truly appreciate it. All the hoighty toighty upper class of London spilling from Fortnum’s and the Ritz in their _couture_ and lavish furs, all with the price of a thousand sweatshop workers and bloodily skinned animals weighing them down, sliding pompously into their shiny limousines and classic cars. And where else would you see these covetous humans sharing the same streets as the lowest thugs and chavs the city can spit out? There they are, loping along with their trousers around their knees, spitting great gobs into the gutter. No doubt on their way to cause some trouble, perhaps the odd one planning to trash one of the few _fun_ bars Soho still has.

And _Soho_ – oh that _pit_ of sin and lust.

I’m off topic again.

Behind the groups of fine ladies having their car doors opened for them by apathetic chaffeurs or lustful husbands (married to _other_ women, we must note), an unmistakeable ripple in the ether caught my attention.

Nothing like Gabriel’s stuffy presence, thank _fuck_. One visit in the last few thousand years is more than enough, thanks. If I never see that stick-up-the-arse again it will be too soon (in Old Time or New).

And so, like Moses ( _that_ old dear) the crowds parted in all their gluttonous glory and – who should I see but the little traitor, Crawly?

Crawly? I hear you ask.

Now it’s not often that my plans are thwarted, but this little _fucker_ is one of the few who has properly pissed me off. Crawly – the little low-life who I’ve made do my dirty work more times than I can count over the endless ( _endless_ ) years in The Pit.

Crawly – the one who tempted Eve with the apple. Yes, yes, I lied, so what. (3) Crawly – a representative of mine on Earth, of a sort, borrower of a _corporation_ (custom-made, not just stolen from an unlucky human…), spreading wiles and delivering temptations across the age. Crawly – entrusted with delivering my own child, The Antichrist (the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness) – _my son_ , and setting the good old apocalypse in motion (my big chance to get one over on the Big One Up There, although of course God, dear omniscient Parent Of Mine knew all about it.)

Crawly – the one who fucked up _all of the above._

Currently cowering on the piss-stained pavement outside the Ritz and staring right at me. Look of horror on his face. Terrified.

Delicious.

Of course he’s also in the company of one glowingly righteous angel, but that’s neither here nor there.

  * I got rather fed up of the whole I-know and He-knows-I-know and I-know-He-knows-I-know (and so on) situation up there that after God’s little brainwashing scene I gave it up as a bad job and passed the temptation on to a subordinate. The sex though, _that_ was all me. Nothing like a roll in the hay with the most fuckable woman in human history.



Now, you’ll like the next bit. I charged right over there and slammed my palm straight into the demon’s face, searing his skin and melting his fucking sunglasses right into his face. His screams filled the night air, spreading terror and discord all across the capital.

After his discorporation – hitching up my sleeves – I turned to the prissy angel beside him and ripped the halo from those disgustingly fluffy curls, and watched as His Heavenliness disappeared in a puff of smoke and sulphur.

Job well done.

Oh, alright. I didn’t do any of those things.

I’m meant to be _avoiding_ sins after all, and the violent discorporation of (ex?) angels and demons probably ranks pretty high on the list of Forbidden Acts. Especially since the Almighty has an inexplicable soft-spot for those two toe-rags.

No, in the spirit of transparency, I’ll let you in on the most ridiculous part of this encounter; I somehow found myself invited back to the angel’s bookshop in Soho.

Yes, I know.

Directly after that invitation was when I released the first of my snorts. A violent shudder rippled its way through Crawly’s skinny skeleton, and was that a bit of red smoke curling up from the tip of my nose? Perhaps a spark or two? To my delight, Gunn’s exhausted digestive system chose to let out a great belch at that moment, and it smelled delightfully of sulphur and fried egg sandwich.

“Perhaps you would like to discuss this over tea?” The angel said, placidly, stupidly. And then with a glance from the snake, “…or something a tad stronger?”

And then the snort. And then the snake’s expression – head turned sharply to the angel – disbelief, fear, the unmistakeable expression of someone who’s considering committing the cardinal sin of suicide (unaware that only more horror awaits them, you’re welcome!) – well, that was snort number two.

And so I found myself reclining on frankly the most revolting tartan-patterned sofa the world has seen.

A glass of whiskey (shit) found its way in front of me, placed there by a quickly retreating hand – a snake’s or an angel’s I didn’t care to see.

Crawly was frantically whispering to the angel, _Aziraphale_ , and a plump white hand rested briefly on the snake’s shaking elbow. Honestly, the whole nineteenth century dandy revival thing is so overdone.

And then the angel was settling with a wiggle – ugh – into an armchair, and to my _delight_ the Traitor seemed unable to decide if he should whip up another chair or fall to his knees in supplication. Interesting that he should be so divided after Him Upstairs had basically given Crawly the green light to Sloth about on Earth until Apocalypse 2.0 (and there _will_ be a 2.0, trust me).

Snort number 3.

A flicker of flame from my nostrils.

“So, the Almighty,” the angel began, eyes flicking everywhere else but at me – Crawly stood behind him with a possessive hand on the backrest – “has offered you redemption, in return for one month living as a...as a human?”

That’s about the sum of it.

And then the prissy angel took a _delicate_ little sip of from his wine glass, lips pursed and eyelids lowered. And, _God help me_ , he even stuck out his pinky.

Now in comparison to Michael and Gabriel and Nechael and so on and so forth, Crawly and Aziraphale weren’t such terrible company. Oh, they were absolutely fucking boring, and barely up to a game of verbal sparring or piss-taking like the others, but they were so very fun to play with that afternoon. Maybe it’s something to do with being on Earth so long. See, you know that I spend much of my time sticking my greedy conceptual fingers in incorporeal pies all over the Earth, and equally much of my time breaking those souls rejected by Him in the depths of fiery Hell. But, as I’m beginning to find, there’s much of a difference between floating in the ether and watching people killing and fucking and praying and drinking and eating, and tasting and breathing (and fucking) for yourself. Six thousand long long years of corporation? I think I’d go a bit mad myself and start absorbing all these boring human _morals_ and _ethical codes_ and such-like. I have told you, yes, that Hell is the only place absent of God? Absent of God and consumed by Time. Earth is saturated with the both.

And so, it seemed, out of all things that could possibly appal an angel and demon who had practically humanised themselves over six millennia, my inhabitation of Declan Gunn’s body appalled them the most.

Well I say _them_. Mr Prissy Dandy was all up in arms about it. He even directed a little judgemental sniff to my general vicinity. Which caused the Traitor to stiffen in reflexive terror of my response to such a cutting insult. He was thinking _Shit, angel, no need to bloody_ provoke _the Literal Devil, eh? We’re not in the clear yet…_

Snort number 4.

“Never been tempted by a spot of possession yourself, hmm?” I goaded, enjoying myself terribly. “Not been seduced by the tantalising _squeeze_ of your soul into another human’s body. Terribly _intimate_ that. Not even once? Not even, say, into the body of a middle aged saggy old tarot reading quack?”

The angel’s cheeks reddened.

“Thought incubism would be more your style, but whatever gets your prick hard, as they say.” (4)

  * Remember now – incubism is the boring beast-with-two-backs, human-thinks-it’s-a-dream one, and possession is, well, possession. Everyone’s gotoo’av’ their kinks, eh?



An offended little gasp at that.

“Oh don’t look so offended. I know you’re as gay as a rainbow. You’re projecting your fruity vibes across all the known universe, it’s sickening how horny you are really.”

Having firmly established my position in charge of our cute little group dynamic, I got up and carried on with my monologue, since present company was _less_ than riveting.

“Time for a bit of education though, dearies. This is a bit more sophisticated than your run-of-the-mill possession. Tell me, angel, when you were larking about in that televangelist’s head, I presumed you were in your right mind, as it were? No sudden urges to hoard tins for the coming end of the world or burn a load of blasphemers at the stake? No? That’s the thing with human souls – finicky little things, you can force them into a corner of their mind but they hoard all their secrets and emotions and feelings under their wings like avaricious dragons. You’ve got the odd gold coins of emotions that tumbles down and hits you just at the wrong moment, but apart from that the human soul stubbornly closes up and tries to beat you back out of their cramped little head. 

“Now, ask God, dear old mother and father in heaven – humans really need to come up with a word to call omnipresent parental no-gender-but-also-all-gender celestial beings, honestly – _why_ exactly I’ve been reincorporated into this flagging old body with all the twisted self-loathing and oedipal complexes a repressed bisexual Catholic could possibly contain. Any ideas?”

Continuing with this lovely transparency thing I’m trying, I must admit that I was enjoying this dramatic performance of mine – pacing up and down the cramped bookshop back room, gesticulating wildly, riling my audience up with death by a thousand cuts – enjoying it more so than perhaps even my famous series of serial killer temptations (I’m talking Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer type stuff here – that fantastically nasty incomprehensible stuff that rivals Hell’s own tortures).

Okay, so maybe not as much as that. What can I say? Serial killers are hard to beat. 

“No takers? No? Dear old Parent up there whisked Mr Gunn’s soul all the way to Limbo, leaving his body a cold and bloody husk ready for the taking. My necrophilial real estate acquisition. Now isn’t that enough to make you nauseous?

“And the bloody _state_ of his head when I came into it, God help me, really. As if Gunn’d grabbed his mind with his nails and held on for dear life as he was sucked away even though he slashed his wrists his-own-bloody-self. Left the gory offal of his soul splattered all over the walls and floor and now _I_ have to deal with his mess. Word to the wise – always possess humans when they’re alive.”

And then the angel, that stupid, fluffy-haired, soft-spoken, UnFallen, loved-by-the-Almighty, Free-Willed angel, said the most gut-roaring, lung-pinching, chest-heavingly _funny_ thing I’ve heard in my entire, endless life.

“Perhaps,” he said. And, really, you’ll like this one:

“…just perhaps…the Almighty misses you?”

And that time, dear reader, I think I set the carpet on fire.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading this note is means you read this fic, which is amazing and worrying, so thank you! Also, apologies for the made up French.  
> Find me on tumblr at [folieassdeux](http://folieassdeux.tumblr.com)  
> I love comments ;)


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